Rising Rooted

---

There is a particular kind of sadness I feel when I hear the word optimization.

Not irritation. Not anger, at least not first.

Sadness.

Because optimization is built on a quiet lie: that who you are, right now, is not enough. That you must tighten, hack, upgrade, or correct yourself in order to deserve ease, belonging, or love. And that lie takes a real toll. It certainly did in my own life.

Burnout was my long, slow teacher here. It forced me to untangle just how deeply I had internalized the belief that growth meant control—and that rest, self-acceptance, or liking who I was before improvement was somehow lazy or dangerous. It took years to realize how toxic that soil was. Nothing grows well there.

The problem with optimization

Optimization works beautifully for machines. You can program, upgrade, refine, and measure outputs.

But we are not machines.

We are living, breathing, relational beings.

And yet optimization culture has seeped into nearly every corner of our lives: work, wellness, therapy, motherhood, spirituality, self-development. Anywhere I now see the word hacking applied to the human body, I quietly put the book down. This body is not a problem to be solved. It is something to be in relationship with.

Optimization subtly turns growth into self-surveillance. It trains us to watch ourselves constantly—to measure, compare, correct. And over time, that gaze hardens into shame. Burnout. The sense of always being behind. The feeling that you’re doing life wrong.

This culture is particularly brutal for people who don’t fit the mold: neurodivergent folks, trauma survivors, creatives, deeply sensitive people. Anyone whose rhythm doesn’t match the machine gets labeled inefficient.

But inefficiency, in human terms, often means aliveness.

Individuation is a different path

Individuation—as I understand it—is not about becoming better.

It’s about becoming more yourself.

The psychologist Carl Jung described individuation as the lifelong process of integrating the many parts of the psyche into a more whole, authentic self. Not perfection. Not arrival. A continual unfolding.

It’s messy. Slow. Often circular.

Sometimes deeply relieving. Sometimes lonely.

What changed my own life was realizing that I am allowed to love myself as I am—messy, imperfect, disorganized—and still be committed to growth. In fact, that love is what made growth possible.

Growth rooted in self-rejection is brittle.

Growth rooted in self-acceptance is flexible.

These days, I don’t move in straight lines. I set an intention, wander, get pulled off course by life, and then remember—again and again—to come back. Not with punishment, but with curiosity. Not with urgency, but with care.

Optimization asks: How can I be better?

Individuation asks: How can I be more myself—and offer that honestly to the world?

A late-winter pause

If you’re reading this and feel something stir—sadness, grief, relief, resistance—I want to invite a brief pause.

Take your eyes off the screen for a moment.

Notice where this lands in your body.

Is there tightening? Softening? A sense of recognition?

Let your shoulders drop. Massage your jaw.

Allow one slow breath to move through you.

You don’t need to decide anything right now.

Just let it land.

Artemis: whole unto herself

For this season, I keep returning to Artemis.

She is often called a virgin goddess, but that word has been deeply misunderstood. In her original meaning, virgin meant whole unto oneself—not belonging to anyone, not shaped for someone else’s desire or approval.

Artemis lives in the wild, but not alone. She moves with her companions, her community. She is devoted to her own rhythm, her own values, her own way of being in the world. She does not optimize herself to fit civilization. She refuses domestication.

In this way, Artemis becomes a powerful ally for individuation—especially for those recovering from burnout. She reminds us that stepping out of oppressive expectations is not selfish. It is sacred.

To individuate is often to realize, with grief and clarity, that much of your life was shaped by stories you didn’t consciously choose. And that realization can hurt. There is loss there. Anger, even. But there is also the possibility of reclaiming something essential—your wildness, your weirdness, your truth.

February wisdom: pressure under the snow

February carries a particular tension.

The days are lengthening. Something wants to move. But the ground is still frozen. We are not ready to bloom.

This is still a season of concealment. Of dream-time. Of foundations being quietly laid beneath the surface. Optimization culture hates this phase. It wants momentum, proof, outcomes.

But late winter teaches something else: pressure does not mean readiness.

The work here is not to force growth—but to tend your own process of becoming, exactly where you are. To notice where the push to optimize conflicts with how you actually want to live. And to choose, gently and repeatedly, to honour your own rhythm.

Small ways to resist optimization

Resistance doesn’t have to be dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like:

• Treating yourself with the kindness you would offer a beloved friend—listening, not fixing.
• Using a simple mantra when self-judgment creeps in: I’m not a project.
• Actively loosening the body when you notice bracing—softening the eyes, dropping the shoulders, unclenching the jaw.
• Practicing gratitude toward yourself: what are you proud of today, even in the smallest way?

These aren’t hacks.

They are acts of relationship.

A ritual for undoing the metrics

Choose an object that represents productivity or self-improvement for you—a planner, a fitness tracker, a to-do list.

Place it on one side of the room.

On the other side, place something that represents your essence: a stone, a photo, a piece of art, something from nature.

Sit between them.

Ask yourself:

“Who am I becoming when I stop treating myself like a problem to be solved?”

Let the answer come slowly. Over days, if needed. Journal, move, sit, or simply notice what shifts in how you relate to yourself.

This ritual isn’t about rejecting growth.

It’s about choosing which kind.

If this post brings up grief—grief for how far optimization culture pulled you away from yourself—please know that grief is a sign of remembering, not failure.

We were not given maps for individuation. This culture doesn’t teach us how to come home to ourselves. So of course it can feel disorienting to realize you want to live differently now.

You are allowed to choose love as your foundation.

You are allowed to grow from there.

And you don’t have to arrive anywhere to be on the path.

---

If this spoke to something in you, there are a few paths you can follow from here:

Each door leads somewhere different. It is my hope that all of them lead back to you.

<3 Rachel